by Martin Rua
They were inside within a moment. Whoever had witnessed that scene from the outside would have thought they were hallucinating.
“This church wasn’t chosen at random, as I was telling you,” resumed Vorjas as they walked down the nave punctuated by seven Ionic columns. “It seems that after the damage caused by the Normans, the Templars handled the reconstruction in the eleventh century.”
Woland raised an eyebrow. “Glyz, or some other dear brother of the Lodge of the Nine, would have hidden the Baphomet here for that reason?”
“Yes, and because of the mithraeum.”
In 1934, as Vorjas explained, in-depth excavations were conducted in the Roman domus under the church and it was discovered that at some point in the past it had been converted into a mithraeum.
“From the Chaldean magicians, over the Lodge of the Nine, to the initiated of the cult of Mithras and the Templars. The poor Baphomet has sunk so low through the centuries,” Woland said sarcastically. “It’s time to make amends.”
Once they arrived at the gateway that led to the underground rooms, the small group began to descend, and after a few steps, they found themselves in a rectangular room with stone benches on the sides, where, in the past, the initiates of the mysteries of the god Mithras had attended the ceremony, reclining on soft cushions. In the back of the temple, the now ruined bas-relief depicting the tauroctony – the supreme iconography of Mithraism in which the god Mithras kills the cosmic bull – was visible.
Camille looked around her in fascination, then shook her head and glanced at Vorjas. “If Glyz or the members of the Lodge of the Nine have hidden the Baphomet here, there must be a connection with Mithras, who was, after all, an ancient Indo-Iranian divinity revered by the Persians, and the Baphomet too has Chaldean-Babylonian origins. At some point during history, there may have been contact. Or maybe, since Mithras is a sun god, the Lodge of the Nine has chosen that way to try and limit the obscure power of the Baphomet.”
Approaching the altar, Woland waved his hand as though to reject that hypothesis. “Or more simply, my dear, Vladimir Glyz and friends randomly picked a beautiful place with a connection to Templar legends. Quick, scan down here.”
In a few seconds, one of the Thule’s men had assembled a highly sensitive scanner – one of the type used in archaeological excavations which is capable of detecting buried objects or cavities buried up to twenty-five metres deep – and after just a few seconds, the scanner display showed the silhouette of a cubic object.
Woland was excited. “Here we are! Dig! Dig, quickly.”
The men set to work and lifted the stone slabs that covered the floor. They began to dig, and after five minutes, their shovels bumped against something hard that looked like a wooden case. The men turned to look at Woland. His eyes gleaming, he gestured to them to lift out the box. The men obeyed his order and, with the help of strong ropes, pulled it up.
They set it on the floor in front of the hole they had dug.
Woland knelt down so he could clearly see the symbol of the Lodge of the Nine imprinted upon the ancient wood. “No seal can stop me anymore. Scan it again, then open it with caution.”
The men leaned a hand scanner on the case, then one of them looked at Woland. “There’s a cubic metal object inside.”
Woland nodded. “Go ahead.”
The two men took a crowbar and, being careful not to nick the contents of the case, removed the lid.
Woland continued to observe anxiously. “Aren’t you excited, Anna? Finally you’re going to get to see what, in all probability, your grandfather was killed for.”
Anna was behind him, held tightly by Bastian. She snorted like an enraged bull. “And you know something about it, don’t you?”
Woland turned and cast her a disparaging look.
“Oh, if you think I had anything something to do with the death of your grandfather, you’re wrong. I am certainly not the only one on the trail of the Baphomet. The intelligence agencies of half the world would pay in gold to be here, right now. It wouldn’t surprise me to discover that your own country’s government was behind your grandfather’s death. In any case, I am sorry for him, you know? I truly am. A beautiful mind, despite his recklessness. The proof of his failure is that I am here, now. By the way, do you know why I wanted you here as well?”
Anna remained silent, staring at him.
Woland nodded to Camille, who pulled out a smartphone from her coat pocket. “In the unfortunate event that this case doesn’t contain the thing which I’ve flown fifteen hours to get hold of, your friend, Lorenzo Aragona, will receive an amazing video where he’ll be able to enjoy Bastian’s mastery of the art of torture. To begin with.”
34
Villa Gondemar
Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona
Rome, January 2013
At half past eight sharp we were at the gate of Villa Gondemar, the Roman headquarters of the Missionaries of the Temple of Jerusalem.
The day was cold, but the sky was blue and clear and although we were nervous about what we might find, the journey from Trastevere to the Aurelia Antica had been pleasant.
“Well, according to the information about Villa Gondemar that I found last night, it seems that in this area, there was a small commendam of the Templars centuries ago,” I said as we were waiting for someone to let us in. “It’s a recent discovery.”
Meanwhile, a male voice answered the intercom.
“Good morning, this is Police Chief Oscar Franchi, I’m here with Mr Aragona, we have an appointment with Father Palminteri.”
The feeble voice that had answered gave out an almost imperceptible, “Yes, please come in,” and the gate opened.
We walked down the path leading to the villa, a very elegant building from the late seventeenth century which stood out against the blueness of the heavens that morning. There was a beautiful garden all around the villa, and a church, certainly older than the main building, peeped out from one secluded corner.
As we walked past it, we were given confirmation of the information I had unearthed: a cross pattée, with the regular arms typical of the Templars, stood proudly above the main door of the little building, which clearly dated back to the Middle Ages.
“It’s quite disturbing that they call themselves Missionaries of the Temple of Jerusalem,” Oscar said, “but if the connection with the Templars is more than just a name, I’m starting to see a thread running through all of this.”
“Among the curious information that I found on these missionaries, there was one thing which is very interesting,” I added when we were almost in front of the villa’s main door. “It seems that the founder belonged to an ancient noble family who, in the Middle Ages, counted several of its members among the Templars. So if you put two and two together—”
“And what was the founder’s name?”
“Father Sean Bruce. He was Scottish. The order was founded in the late nineteenth century.”
A priest in his sixties clad in a black cassock was waiting for us in the doorway of the villa. Of medium height, with thin grey hair and a clean-shaven face, he wore a serious but not unfriendly expression. The priest half nodded.
“Good morning,” Oscar greeted him, holding out his hand, “I’m Commissioner Franchi, and this is Lorenzo Aragona.”
“Luigi Palminteri,” said the other immediately.
His friendly expression changed abruptly when he saw Antonio Navarro. He immediately tried to hide the surprise which had appeared on his face, but for a split second it looked as though he’d seen a ghost.
Oscar and I noticed it.
“Do you two know each other?” asked my friend with a frown.
Palminteri hastily gave a quick smile of embarrassment and shook his head. “N–no, no, I thought I had met the gentleman but—”
“But you must have mistaken me for someone else, mustn’t you, father?” Navarro broke in, completing the other’s sentence for him.
“Yes, I think
I must.”
Oscar and I exchanged looks. There was definitely something odd, but it seemed better to leave it for the moment.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet us, father.”
“When you told me on the phone that you were looking for Anastasio Elpìda yesterday, Mr Aragona, I feared for a moment that you were just some troublemaker.”
“A troublemaker? Why?”
“Please, come in – it’s cold outside,” said the priest, without answering my question and leading the way into the villa.
Brilliantly coloured frescoes representing Greek gods and muses adorned the high ceilings, but the splendour that still characterized the decoration of the noble residence was counterbalanced by the simplicity of its furnishings. We walked past a couple of rooms, and as I cast a desultory glance into one I saw a silhouette sitting in a wheelchair with its back to the door, looking out of a window. For some reason I didn’t comprehend, that image disturbed me, but I shrugged and tried to concentrate on the reason why we were there.
Father Palminteri took us into a small, spartan living room containing a couch, a coffee table and a couple of armchairs. Two paintings of missionaries in priestly garb adorned the walls.
“Mr Elpìda was our guest here for a few years, gentlemen,” the priest began again, with some tension in his voice, inviting us to take a seat. “A good person, very discreet, with great pain inside. A person clearly escaping something. He made a large donation to our Order, asking to be our guest in return and we welcomed him as Christians.”
Father Palminteri had been very vague to me on the phone and hadn’t even said whether Anastasio Elpìda was still alive or not, or who the Giovanni who had signed the postcard was. We looked at each other in embarrassment for a moment, each of us weighing up the priest’s words and our possible replies.
Father Palminteri seemed confused and almost annoyed by our behaviour, but then regained his composure and gave another shy smile. “So, who is Anastasio Elpìda to you? Why are you looking for him?”
I hesitated a moment before answering and Oscar intervened to prevent me giving away anything compromising. He must have thought that priest was hiding more than he was letting on.
“Look father, Elpìda is a close friend of Mr Aragona and Mr Navarro. The gentlemen haven’t had any news from him for years, but recently they’ve come to know that Elpìda may have been your guest. Apparently, the information was correct.”
Father Palminteri weighed Oscar’s words, exchanged a quick, intense look with Antonio and then his eyes lingered on me. “If he kept the place where he lived secret, he must have had his reasons,” he said finally, suggesting that he believed Oscar’s words. The man knew something, but he was still suspicious.
I decided to intervene, taking a different tack and addressing him gently. “Father, please, tell us the truth. At least tell us if he’s dead or alive.”
The priest looked at us for a moment more, then smiled again, this time sadly, and sighed. “Come with me.”
We crossed the villa, meeting only a couple of young missionaries ready to go out.
“Father, if we’ve finished here, we’ll be on our way.”
“Of course, I’ll see you at the Vatican this afternoon,” said Palminteri, then turning to us and adding, “As you may know, tomorrow the international summit on human rights organized by the Vatican and the European Union is taking place. It’s an extraordinary event that will mark the beginning of co-operation between the Catholic Church and most of the governments around the world on the development of human rights. European leaders, the Secretary of State, the Russian Foreign Minister and the world leaders of the Church are attending. The summit is one of the many progressive initiatives the Vatican has been undertaking recently, after years of closing itself off to the realities of the world. The new pope is truly enlightened.”
“And you are involved in organising it?” Oscar asked.
Father Palminteri raised his eyebrows as if to emphasize his words. “Actually, I worked on part of the agreement. I’m in the Vatican commission of International Law. I helped to mediate between the perhaps excessive enthusiasm of our young pope and the rather too conservative perspectives of some of our bishops. I am a professor of canon law and advisor on international relations for the Vatican on the subject of human rights.”
He must have noticed the astonishment on our faces, because he felt the need to add, “Don’t be misled by the fact that I live so far from the elite of the clergy. Now, let’s go, I don’t have much time.”
We reached a large hall, where the receptions of the noble residence must once have been held, and went through a wide French door into the garden. Father Palminteri walked round the villa and headed towards the small chapel we had seen before. “Villa Gondemar was built on an old estate that belonged to the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ, better known as the Templars. The chapel is very precious, it’s one of the few medieval chapels in Rome that are well preserved. It was part of their ancient commendam.”
I was surprised that the priest talked about it with such nonchalance. “It’s an extraordinary discovery for studies of the Templars, there was no knowledge of a commendam in this area of the city. What does the Cultural Superintendence think about it? Apparently its attribution to the Templars is recent.”
Father Palminteri paused for a moment and then looked back at me. “The superintendence can ask for a permit to study the chapel whenever they want, Mr Aragona, but if you expect us to open the doors to the army of those obsessed with the mysteries of the Templars, you’re entirely wrong. This is first and foremost a place of prayer and study.”
He said no more and resumed walking, then went around the back of the chapel. In a piece of land enclosed by a low, very old iron fence, there was a small cemetery we hadn’t been able to see before. As we walked towards it, our hopes vanished instantly.
We passed tombstones dating back to times when, supposedly, the Templars must have been just a memory, and continued until Father Palminteri stopped before a very recent, very simple tombstone, set a little apart from the others.
“Anastasio Elpìda is here. He passed away peacefully in his bed about five years ago. He was very old. I’m sorry, but you have arrived too late.”
There were no pictures on the stone and not even the date of birth, which my grandfather had obviously never told the monks. There was his pseudonym, Anastasio Elpìda, the date of death and a small and seemingly insignificant sign: a circled cross.
It was his signature – the symbol of the Nine. He made sure that it would appear on his tombstone so that we would recognize it.
I was more disappointed about what he could no longer tell me than upset by this certain proof of his death. For me he had died forty years before.
Navarro wore an expression of controlled pain. Clearly, he had been nourishing the hope of embracing his old friend again.
I tried to console him, but immediately understood that he wanted to be left alone with his suffering.
Oscar came up to me and, understanding my mood, put a hand on my shoulder.
I shook my head and stared at the tombstone. “Maybe it’s just a sign of destiny, Oscar, maybe I just have to accept the fate awaiting my wife and be with her until the end. This is all insane, and has been since the beginning. Now it’s starting to get grotesque.”
“You know, considering how sceptical of all this stuff I usually am, it’s funny that I should be the one to say this to you, but until a few days ago, before all the various threads of this business started knotting up, I would have said you were right. I’m not so sure any more, though. I think there might be some truth behind this story. At the end of the day, your grandfather sacrificed his life to protect you from this secret. I can’t believe it’s just a legend.”
I looked at him in amazement. He was right – he was usually so rational that he played counterbalance to my imagination, and hearing him talk like that made me think that perhaps he wasn’t so wrong afte
r all.
“We welcomed him warmly, he was a lovable person,” said Father Palminteri, giving several intense looks at Navarro, “but he carried within himself great sadness. We tried to make him feel the warmth of a family. Let him rest in peace. Now, I’m sorry, but I really need to prepare some papers for this afternoon. We can see each other again after the summit if you like, in a couple of days.”
As we were walking back to the villa, Oscar approached the priest.
“Father, I still have many questions about Elpìda. I’d like to see his things, I hope you’ve kept them. There are shadows in this person’s past that I would like to shed some light on. Please let me know when you have more time.”
“I didn’t know there was an ongoing investigation, Chief.”
“Are you asking me to come with a warrant?”
“Oh no, you don’t need to, of course. I’ll be happy to show you the few things Elpìda had, but you must give me a couple of days, as I said before, because it’s a delicate matter and I can’t entrust it to anybody else. I am the father superior of the Order in Rome and it’s my responsibility.”
“All right, I’ll wait until after the summit.”
“Even though—”
“Even though?”
Father Palminteri stopped for a moment and looked enigmatically at all of us, his gaze lingering for a long time on Navarro.
“Perhaps there are secrets in Elpìda’s life which should remain so.”
Without another word he turned and headed for the exit of the villa. Before we got there, however, we came across the man in the wheelchair that I had caught a glimpse of in one of the rooms. Now that he was before me, I realised how old he was.
His face was serene and he had very thick eyebrows and long grey hair, thin on top. His nose was straight and his toothless mouth was moving grotesquely, as though he were whispering something. And the eyes! They were so incredibly intense that they unsettled me.